


Triton

by Eldalire



Category: Celtic Mythology, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Little Mermaid Elements, M/M, Selkies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-03-09 21:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18925771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eldalire/pseuds/Eldalire
Summary: Lighthouse keepers Feuilly and Grantaire's simple lives are completely changed by a strange young man who washes up during a storm.  He cannot speak, but seems to have lost something...





	1. Chapter 1

Grantaire woke with a start when he heard Feuilly’s pounding footsteps racing down the stairs.

            “What’s the matter?” he asked, sitting bolt upright and swinging his legs over the edge of the cot, finding his boots in the flash from a bolt of lightening. 

            “There’s somebody out there!” he shouted over the shuddering roll of thunder.

            “Out _there?_  Now?” he pulled on the rubber boots as Feuilly pushed his arms frantically into his oilskin coat. “Feuilly wait until the storm passes! You’ll get washed away out there!” he took Feuilly’s shoulder in his hand in an attempt to stop him, but he forged ahead, the wind throwing the door open the moment he unlatched it. Grantaire recoiled at the blast of cold sea air, and Feuilly ran for the rocky beach far below, where a pale body lay on the pebbly sand, the violent waves rolling it in the surf.

 

Grantaire watched from the window and opened the door when Feuilly trudged back up the hill, a frail, waifish body hanging limply in his arms.

            “Dead?” Grantaire asked simply as lightening illuminated the small living space, the wood burning stove casting a warm, flickering glow.

            “No,” Feuilly replied, “not yet,” he placed the body down on the old sofa as Grantaire watched, helpless.  The young man Feuilly had pulled from the breakwater was sheet pale, lips and eyelids blue, long red hair soaked and tangled. His breathing was so shallow, Grantaire could hardly tell he was breathing at all.  Feuilly covered him with the thick woolen blanket from the cedar trunk in the corner.

            “What do we do?” he asked, handing Feuilly the towel from the washbasin to dry his hair and beard, which had been drenched by the storm.

            “I’ll stay with him.  You tend the light.  It’s nearly dawn, just a few more hours,” he replied sullenly.  Grantaire nodded and trudged up the spiraling stairs, up to the top of the lighthouse.  Feuilly sat down on the edge of the sofa, watching the slight shiver in the young man’s lower lip.  He reached forward, slowly moving to brush a stray hair from the young man’s face, but the moment his fingers brushed his pasty forehead, the corpse-like figure gasped, his eyes flashing open as he grabbed Feuilly’s wrist with far more strength than he expected.  Feuilly jumped and stood.

            “Are you alright?” he asked.  The young man simply stared at him, his eyes unusually large, his irises bright green.  After a long moment of staring and catching his breath, and young man sighed heavily and laid down again, seeming to calm, deciding he was safe for the moment. “What happened to you?” the young man made no visible reply, and Feuilly bowed a bushy eyebrow as the gale subsided into a heavy rain.  “Can you hear?” he asked, pointing to his ear.  He looked to Feuilly and nodded slowly, as if testing the movement.  “Can you speak?” he thought for a long moment, but suddenly seemed startled and whipped his head around, searching the room frantically.  He attempted to stand, swinging his legs from the sofa, but stumbling and falling over the coffee table with a clatter as Feuilly caught him.

            “Calm down!  Calm down, you’re alright,” tears flooded the young man’s eyes.  He grabbed Feuilly’s flannel and buried his face, crying quite audibly.

            “Here, come sit, easy now,” he guided the man back to the worn sofa, his legs shaking horribly, his movements stiff.  “I’m going to fix you a cup of tea.  Just stay put, we’ll figure this out,” he assured him with a warm smile.  The young man wiped his eyes and watched intently as Feuilly took a large stoneware mug from the cupboard and filled the kettle.  The tealeaves seemed to amaze him, and the fire danced in his eyes as it shown from the stove.  In fact, everything seemed remarkable to him, as if he had never seen any of it before, never experienced the warmth of a fire or the earthy scent of tealeaves.

            He was still tearful when Feuilly handed him the mug, and though his hands seemed unsure, the warmth seemed to comfort him. He held the cup to his bare chest.

            “Careful, it’s hot,” he warned, pouring himself a cup and taking a cautious sip.  The young man watched him and imitated, taking a slow sip himself, pulling away quickly and sticking out his tongue.

            “I told you it was hot!” Feuilly laughed lightly.  He sat on the other side of the sofa, away from his mysterious visitor.  “So you cannot speak, it seems,” he began, trying for something like conversation. The young man watched his reflection in his teacup.  “Can you write?  Where do you come from?” the young man turned and looked out the window, over the cliff side and to the sea, just as the sun was beginning to peek over the cloudy horizon.

            “Were you shipwrecked, then?  We had quite a gale last night,” he shook his head sadly, taking another sip of his tea, wiping quiet tears on his shoulder.

            “Please don’t worry, my friend, we’ll get you back where you belong,”

 

Grantaire’s footsteps rumbled down the creaky stairs, and he yawned as he appeared in the kitchen doorway.

            “Morning, Feuilly,” he said with a groggy smile. “Good morning,” he added, looking to the man on the sofa.  He looked up, but made no reply.  “Feuilly, you haven’t given the poor thing anything to wear?” he shook his head.

            “He’s a bit shaky, I didn’t want to make him move. But I suppose you’re right,” he stood, placing his mug of tea on the coffee table before heading up the stairs. “Wait here, I’ll be right back,” he smiled to the young man.  Grantaire followed im shortly.

            “Has he said anything?” Grantaire asked as they reached the top of the staircase, up into the small bedroom they shared. There wasn’t much space in the lighthouse.

            “Nothing.  I don’t think he can speak,”

            “Did you see his eyes?” Grantaire continued, raising his eyebrows.  Feuilly gave him a quizzical look.  “They’re green.  And his red hair, you know what that means, don’t you?”

            “What are you on about?”

            “Red hair and green eyes means he’s one of the fairy people, the ones my mother talked about when I was small,” Feuilly chuckled and shook his head.

            “That’s children’s stories, R.  He’s peculiar, but I’m sure he’s just a man,”

            “Just don’t let him trick you.  Fairies play tricks, you know,” he took the bottle of wine from his bedside table and took a long swig.  Feuilly rolled his eyes and took one of Grantaire’s shirts and a pair of his trousers from the chest at the foot of his bed.

            “Why my clothes?” he asked, taking another quick sip.

            “He’s quite thin, I’m far larger than you are.  Yours will fit better,” Grantaire made a face, and Feuilly walked back downstairs.

            When he reached the small living area, he found the room in shambles, drawers out of tables, chairs overturned, even the door on the stove had been opened.  Feuilly found the young man crouched on the floor, nude save for the blanket he held to his chest, peering under the coffee table.

            “What happened?” Feuilly asked, his voice startling the young man, who jumped and gasped.  He scrambled back to the sofa and sat down again.

            “What are you looking for?” he asked, pushing the drawers back into their cubbies and righting the armchair.  “Have you lost something?”  The young man simply gazed timidly at Feuilly with his spooky green eyes. “Anyhow…Here, put these on, they’ll be much more comfortable than the blanket,” he smiled, handing him the clothing. “The washroom’s just around the corner,”

            The young man looked to the clothing, seeming puzzled, and stood, still just a touch wobbly on his feet, and headed to the washroom. Feuilly watched him as he went , finding his casual nakedness puzzling.  He was not embarrassed, made no effort to cover himself, and Feuilly wasn’t sure what to make of it.  He chuckled. Maybe he was a fairy after all.

            He emerged a moment later, Grantaire’s shirt hanging from his boney shoulders, but the drawstring on the pair of pants seemed to puzzle him, and held the waistband up with his hands.

            “Like this,” Feuilly instructed, tying a knot at the front.  “You are strange indeed, _Triton_ ,” he laughed.  The young man smiled and shook his head at the silly nickname.  He was not a merman, but the name was fitting, nonetheless.  “It looks like it’s going to be a nice day.  Would you like to help me in the garden?” he asked. The young man didn’t seem to understand, but nodded anyway, and stood, following Feuilly outside and to the back of the small house.

 

Grantaire took a new bottle of wine from the cupboard and headed down the winding stairs to the beach, far below the cliffs where the lighthouse resided.  He was tired from tending the light all night, but sleep had never come easily to Grantaire, and he often found himself walking the beach, his feet bare, his trousers rolled up his ankles so he could wade into the water. He was always looking for little treasures on the shore; pieces of sea glass, fish bones, shark’s teeth.  But after a storm, the treasures were often more exciting.  Storms meant shipwrecks, and shipwrecks meant flotsam. 

            Though he had never found anything worth very much, he often made some interesting discoveries.  In fact, he had discovered their coffee table washed up after a storm. But today he wasn’t having much luck. He felt badly being disappointed—no refuse meant no ship had wrecked—but he did enjoy his little treasure hunts.

            He sat on a piece of driftwood, one he frequented, and decided to at least enjoy his bottle of wine.  He watched the surf, matching his breathing to the rhythm of the waves, when suddenly something in the breakwater caught his eye.  He stood and pushed his wine bottle into the sand, then waded in, watching as a white, pearlescent _something_ shifted in the swirling foam.  He took it in his hand and lifted it from the water, finding it far heavier than he expected, and studying it for a moment, trying to decide what it was.  It felt like a skin, of some sort, a pelt, but it was so unbelievably soft and white, with a pearlescent sheen that was unlike any animal pelt he had ever seen. He stretched it between his hands, and realized in a moment that the heaping mass of wet fur was, in fact, a coat; a beautiful fur coat, the likes of which he had never seen or heard of before. 

            “This must have cost someone a fortune,” he said aloud to himself, draping the soaked garment over his arm, snagging his wine bottle as he passed, and making his way back up to the house.

 

 

 

 

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	2. Chapter 2

‘ _Triton’_ followed Feuilly around to the small garden behind the house.  They grew vegetables in raised beds, which Feuilly tended daily, keeping the weeds at bay and shooing the rabbits.

            “Would you like to water the beds?” Feuilly asked, handing the young man a tin watering can, which was filled to the brim with rainwater from last night’s storm.  He seemed to struggle with the weight, but hefted it with two hands and managed to carry it, though he seemed horribly confused.  What was he supposed to do with this?

            “Here, like this,” Feuilly instructed, tipping the spout over the lettuce plants.  “Just a little on each plant, you don’t want to drown them,” he smiled, and he continued watering.  Feuilly freed the chickens from their coop.

            When the young man saw the chickens free and poking about around him, he dropped the watering can, his eyes blown wide.  He stood on one of the raised beds, struggling to balance, but fearful of stepping on the ground for fear of being pecked. Feuilly laughed and scooped up a particularly mild mannered hen, stroking her head.

            “They won’t hurt you,” he explained, showing the young man the chicken.  “They’re chickens, they eat the bugs from the grass,” he explained.  The young man reached out a shaking hand and gently pet the hen’s back, finding it agreeable, and softening, fear departing and making way for curiosity.  He continued to stroke the chicken, fascinated.  He handed _Triton_ the hen, and he held it with a smile.  Feuilly quite liked it when the young man smiled…his eyes seemed to sparkle just so, and his freckly cheeks lifted in such a way that simply tickled him. He was so childish, innocent, unsure. He wondered if the young man had some sort of amnesia, or if he had sustained a blow to the head during some trauma during the storm.  Though endearing, his behavior was certainly unusual.  It seemed that he not only came from another place, but perhaps another world altogether. 

            When Feuilly finished raking out the chicken coop, he found his guest sitting on the grass, gazing out over the water, his long red hair stirring in the breeze.  Grantaire’s shirt hung from his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to notice, simply engrossed by the churning of the waves against the rocks.

            “Would you like to see the beach?” the young man turned to him, his eyes bright. “You didn’t get a very good view last night,” Feuilly added with a chuckle.  _Triton_ stood and nodded eagerly, and together they began down the winding path to the beach.

 

Grantaire returned to the house, the coat in hand, and hurried up the stairs into the bedroom. He draped the pelt over the top of his trunk to dry, and thought for a long moment, sitting on the bed.  Should he tell Feuilly?  Show him what he had found?  He knew he didn’t want to tell their strange visitor, though.  Despite Feuilly’s reasonable rebuts, Grantaire was still quite superstitious, and couldn’t help but believe the young man was not of their plane of being.  His mother told him stories of the fairy people, the Fae, and said that they often took the shape of regular humans.  She warned him, though, that there was always a way to tell if someone might be a fairy: they were typically small in stature, waifish, perhaps even sickly from being out of their ‘true form’ for too long.  She had also described them as nearly always having red hair and green eyes.  Their mysterious visitor ticked all the boxes.  Grantaire had also been warned that fairies often used their powers to trick the mortals into doing their bidding.  They stole things, and Grantaire wasn’t keen on losing his prize. 

He decided to keep quiet about it, and planned to stow it away in his trunk as soon as it dried.  Then, the next time he made the trip into town, he would bring it and sell it.  He was sure it was valuable, it had to be. The very strands of the silky fur seemed to be wisps of pearl, fibers of silken iridescence.  It was impossible to say what type of creature it was from, if it were natural, or what it was made of if it was artificial, but the softness Grantaire felt could not have been easily replicated.  Either way, he was sure it would fetch a handsome sum, which he could use for necessary supplies…and more wine. 

Keeping the lighthouse was exhausting work, and more or less solitary. Though he and Feuilly got on well, they probably wouldn’t have been friends had their profession not brought them together, for they had little in common.  Grantaire often found himself lonely, bored, and turned to drink for company.

He trudged downstairs after a good while, and sat on the sofa with a sigh, picking up the ivory tooth of a sperm whale he had traded from a sailor.  He then took a pin and etched into the surface, continuing an image he had began previously.  Though difficult to see without the finishing ink, the image he carved was of a mermaid with glossy curls tumbling down her back, sitting atop a great rock, watching as a ship tossed in a storm.  He had been working on the scrimshaw for quite a while, but never felt he was finished, never felt he could pour ink over the surface to make his line work visible.  It wasn’t that he lacked the confidence to show his work; he drew often in a notebook and left it laying about for anyone to see, but something about this whale tooth was different…He wanted it to be perfect…he continued scratching away.

 

 _Triton_ seemed far more at ease the moment his feet hit the pebbly sand.  His eyes lit up luminously, and he ran to the water, sitting down in the breakwater and letting the waves crash over him fearlessly.  He was shortly soaked, but when Feuilly reached his side, he found him laughing, near hysterical.  A bit of his voice snuck into his laughter, and Feuilly grinned.  How he wished the young man could speak normally, his laughter was like a song; surely his voice would be just as enchanting.  Feuilly imagined him speaking; speaking to him…what would he say?  Would he tell him where he came from; how he came to the lighthouse in the storm? What was his name?  Such a simple question, and yet there was no way to answer it, no way to give any hint to an identity.  Everything about him was a mystery, and Feuilly couldn’t help but be drawn to him.

            The young man was childlike in his joy as he swam, dipping gracefully below the waves and surfacing far away, back and forth across the shallow bay.  He was incredibly comfortable in the water, and moved so much more naturally, there, than on land.    _Triton_ was more fitting of a name than ever.

            He surfaced just beyond the breakwater, his red hair darkened to a silky burgundy, and he smiled, motioning with his hands for Feuilly to join him.  He smiled and shook his head, staying on the sand, but Triton insisted, tapping at the surface of the water, rising and falling in the gentle surf.  Feuilly sighed, defeated, and took off his shirt, leaving it under a stone on the sand, and waded out to the young man, submerging his head and pushing his blond hair away from his face.  Triton did the same, copying him with a grin, but shortly cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.  He reached out, and with gentle fingers, he touched Feuilly’s beard, pulling at it just a bit.  Feuilly laughed.

            “What are you doing?” he asked.  Triton touched his own clean, smooth chin.  “You haven’t got a beard.  You must have shaved it,” he reasoned, but Triton still seemed confused. He dunked himself under the water, surfacing soundlessly some yards away.

            “You’re fast,” he noted.  Triton blushed, though Feuilly wasn’t sure why.  He smiled.

 

Grantaire had been scratching away at his scrimshaw for quite some time when there was a knock on the door, something he hadn’t experienced since living at the lighthouse. The only way to reach it was via ferryboat, which made the run across the bay only two days a week; Monday and Thursday.  But today was Saturday, and Feuilly never locked the door.  Even if he had, he always carried a key. 

            He stood apprehensively, keeping a hand on the shotgun beside the door as he turned the knob.   Standing in the doorway was an angel.  Grantaire left the shotgun on the hook and stood dumbfounded, looking the man over.  His face was so pale, and yet so rosy and lively, with just a peppering of freckles across his nose.  Piping golden curls framed his face, his jaw sharp, his eyes large and luminous green. Everything about him was long and lean, including his arms, one of which was bent to his chest, holding a coat of thick golden fur, with a pattern of dark spots, over his shoulder.

            “Hello,” He said softly when Grantaire remained in dumbfounded silence.  He offered a small smile, but seemed stoic, confident.  Grantaire shook himself from his stupor.

            “I…Hello,” he replied simply.

            “May I inquire something?” he continued, his smile growing when Grantaire remained awe-struck. 

            “I…um…sure,” he stood stone still, his innards turned to lead in the presence of this angel at his door.

            “May I come in?”

            “Oh!  Yes, of course, please,” he hopped out of the way quickly, allowing the angel to pass over the threshold.  He stopped just inside and turned as Grantaire continued to hold the door open, simply staring at him and his outlandish, but beautiful, coat.

            “Are you quite alright?” he asked.  Grantaire finally shut the door and faced him properly. 

            “Yes.  Yes I just…We don’t get many visitors,” he explained feebly.  “W-would you like a cup of tea?”

            “That would be lovely, thank you.  I came to ask, though,” Grantaire turned from the kettle, “Have you seen a young man about?  He’s quite waifish, with long red hair,” Grantaire wasn’t sure what to say.  Had someone come looking for their guest?

            “What does it matter to you?” he replied, unsure how to continue.  Did someone mean him ill will?  Yes, he was strange, and Grantaire didn’t particularly trust him, but he had appeared half dead on the beach…perhaps someone wanted rid of him and discovered they had been unsuccessful. 

            “He’s my…younger brother,” Grantaire raised an eyebrow at his hesitation.  Not to mention they looked nothing alike, aside from their ridiculously green eyes.  The young man who washed up on the beach was unusual in appearance, with an overly long, thin nose and massive eyes, gangly limbs and bluish skin.  The angel sitting at his table was tall and well kept, with glossed hair and thick eyebrows, full lips and a beautiful smile.

            “Have you seen him?”

            “A young man with red hair washed up on the beach during the storm last night,” he admitted.

            “Is he still here?  I’m quite worried for him, you see.  He’s never been…never been here before.  I fear he’s lost.”

            “Never been where?  France?”

            “No, we live nearby, he’s just…never mind,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.  “I’m Enjolras, by the way,” he said as he took the mug of tea from Grantaire.

            “R,” he replied, their hands meeting on the side of the mug.  Grantaire lingered a moment, his hand smooth and warm.

            “R?”

            “My name is Grantaire.  R is easier,”

            “Well, R, then...” he smiled, “Is my brother still here? Or has he gone?”

            “He’s around here someplace, he’s with my mate Feuilly, we tend the light together,”

            “Would you mind if I looked for them?  Are they about the island?”

            “I assume so, but you may have better luck if you wait here.  They’ll be back soon, I’m sure,” he said, though it wasn’t true.  The island was small, and the light was at the very top of the central hill.  Enjolras would have been able to spot them quickly.  But Grantaire wanted him to stay.  To stay with him.

            “Alright.  Thank you. I do appreciate it.”

            “Never a problem, Enjolras.  But sit here on the sofa, he glanced to the space beside him as he took up his scrimshaw again, trying to appear casual, though his heart was fluttering and his stomach was in his throat.  Enjolras sat somewhat apprehensively, unsure, but continued to sip his tea, sitting up very straight, not letting his back touch the cushions. He seemed almost fearful to relax, and kept his coat draped across his lap.

            “That is a beautiful fur,” Grantaire noted after a long while of quiet, noting how the golden strands reflected the light.  Tiny glints of colorful iridescence rippled over the surface.

            “Thank you,” he smiled, looking to it.  He seemed to take a sort of humble pride in it, and ran his hands through it.

            “May I?” Grantaire asked, reaching towards the coat. Enjolras suddenly stiffened, seeming fearful.  Grantaire recoiled.  “I won’t if you do not wish me to,”

            “I’m sorry, I just worry,” he admitted, continuing to run his fingers over the neat pile of the fur.  “It is quite dear to me, you see,”

            “Heirloom?”

            “Something like that, I suppose,”

            “It is August, you know.  You must like it quite a bit to keep it with you in this weather,”

            “Oh!  Oh yes, I…I’m easily cold,” a feeble explanation.  The coat was extremely thick and heavy, and the bottom nearly touched the floor.  Overkill for a hot August morning, no matter how chilly you felt.  Grantaire didn’t question it, though he couldn’t help but notice the resemblance between his and the coat that had washed up earlier that morning.  But Enjolras’ was quite obviously sealskin, though unusually colored.  The one he found was so pearly white, it wasn’t like any seal he’d ever seen before, and seals frequented the bay.

            “I understand,” he said, despite his doubt. “Where do you come from?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation alive.  He wasn’t sure how much longer Feuilly would be, and he wanted to get to know Enjolras a bit better…a lot better.

            “My brother and I live with our family in…in a little village.  It isn’t far, but I doubt you’ve heard of it,” he said dismissively.  “What about you?  Where are you from?”

            “I was born in France, but I grew up in Ireland.  My mother is Irish, and we returned to her family after my father died when I was young,” he explained.

            “I’m sorry,” Enjolras said, truly heartfelt.  It tickled Grantaire’s heart that someone could care so deeply for someone they had only just met.  “How did he die?”

            “He kept a lighthouse,” he continued, “but one night during a storm, he fell over the rail while cleaning the glass.  His mate found him the next morning,”

            “And now you work a lighthouse as well?  Doesn’t it frighten you?”

            “No…It’s in my blood, I suppose.  I’ve always wanted to tend a light how he did, ever since I was little.  I have trouble sleeping anyway, I might as well do something with my nights,” he chuckled. Enjolras smiled.

            “Well I’m glad you’ve found something you enjoy. And something useful, to help the ships find their port,”

            “It’s good work,” he placed his scrimshaw down onto the coffee table and leaned back on the sofa, resting his head on the backrest. He stretched his arms out, one sneaking behind Enjolras’ shoulders, though they still sat a fair distance apart. To Grantaire’s surprise, Enjolras didn’t shy away.


	3. Chapter 3

After a good while of carrying on in the waves, Feuilly sighed and pushed his soaked hair off his forehead.  He headed for shore.

            “Sorry, my friend,” he said to the young man, who seemed dismayed at the idea of leaving the water.  “I have to tend the light.  But you could help me, if you’d like,” he suggested.  Triton brightened at that suggestion, and nodded, following Feuilly from the water, his soaking clothes sticking to him as he plodded up the beach, all the grace he had when he was swimming was once again lost to stiff, shaky movements.  Feuilly smiled.

            “Would you like a hand?” he asked, offering his to Triton as he stumbled.  He thought for a long moment, but reached for his hand and took it with a smile. Together they walked up the stone stairs to the lighthouse.

 

Grantaire and Enjolras had, more or less, hit it off.  They were still talking and laughing over tea when Feuilly and Triton came through the door.

            “Who is this?” Feuilly asked.  Grantaire stood, still laughing.

            “This is Enjolras,” he introduced kindly.  Feuilly smiled.  He hadn’t seen Grantaire this happy in…ever.  He was surprised when he didn’t see any wine bottles lying about. “He’s here looking for his—”

            Triton followed Feuilly inside, and nearly jumped to Enjolras, who caught him in a hug.

            “—His brother,” he finished.

            “Brother?” Feuilly asked.  The two looked nothing alike, besides their unusual eye color.

            “I missed you, you had me worried nearly sick,” Enjolras scolded gently as Triton snuggled against his chest.  Feuilly busied himself taking off his boots, feeling heat in his cheeks, a touch jealous, though he wouldn’t admit it to himself.  “Thank you for keeping him safe,” he smiled to Grantaire and Feuilly.

            “Not a problem,” Grantaire grinned, though he had little to do with Triton’s keeping over the past day.  “We were happy to have him.  And we’d be happy to have you as well,” Feuilly rolled his eyes. Grantaire was a hopeless flirt, but for once, he was not intoxicated, and not in a sleazy bar on the mainland.

            “Though I appreciate the offer, we should be getting home,” Enjolras explained almost sadly, looking to Grantaire.  “Come on, Jehan,” he smiled to the young man. “Thank you both again, very much, for looking after him,” Feuilly nodded, unsure what to say.  Though it had only been a day, he was going to miss the young man…He had only just learned his name…And what a romantic name it was.  “Get your coat,” the color drained from Jehan’s face, and Enjolras became suddenly and obviously concerned.  He looked around the room quickly before taking Jehan’s wrist and tugging him towards the door.

            “Excuse us just a minute, please,” he said hurriedly, bringing Jehan outside and shutting the door.

            “He’s sweet, isn’t he?” Grantaire asked, his eyes shining as he gushed to Feuilly.

            “Are you totally oblivious to the conversation just held?  A coat? In August?  Why would either of them have one, particularly Trit—Jehan? How did Enjolras even get here, R?”

            “The ferry—”

            “It’s a Saturday, Grantaire.  And what on earth was he wearing?  A sealskin?  Where did they come from?”

            “I don’t know, but does it matter?  A handsome man has fallen into my lap, and I’d rather him stay there, if you don’t mind,”

            “Grantaire, you’re the one who said he was some sort of fairy person.  What if you were right?”

            “What are you saying?”

            “I don’t know,”

 

—o0o—

 

“You wonder why I never leave you alone, Jehan!” Enjolras scolded in a hissy whisper.  “Do they have it?” Jehan pursed his lips and shrugged.

            “You don’t even know if they have it or not?  You don’t know where it is?” he shook his head no as quiet tears slipped down his freckly cheeks.

            “So you’ve been here nearly two days, unable to speak, without your coat—Do you know how dangerous this is?  You may never be able to come back!  What then?  Will you stay here forever, hopelessly mute?  I don’t understand you, Jehan!” he took his shoulders in his hands as Jehan sobbed.  His beautiful pearly coat, lost, maybe forever.  He might be stranded here, unable to return to the sea…But Feuilly. Feuilly had been so kind to him. Did he even want to go back?  He turned and watched him through the window as he spoke with the other man…Grantaire.  Enjolras took his shoulder again.

            “You don’t know him, Jehan,” he said, as if reading his thoughts.  “You don’t know what they’re like.  Men, humans, they aren’t always as kind as they seem,” he looked away, seeming almost angry.  “And quite honestly, Jehan, I’m not sure what to tell you.  Do you think they have your coat?” he shook his head.  “When did you take it off?  Why?” Jehan shrugged and looked down to his bare feet, his clothes nearly dry, now.  Enjolras shook his head, exasperated.  He knew Jehan had a reason, rational or not, but Jehan had no way to communicate it. 

            Though they looked close in age, Enjolras was far older than Jehan.  He had been to shore many times, sometimes for long stretches of time, and knew how things worked.  He knew how to read and write, to speak multiple languages, to dress properly…to blend in.  And he knew how humans behaved.  He knew that they could seem sweet and kind, but that they could also be conniving, selfish, and dishonest.  Many of them, men in particular, saw a pretty face, a naive young man who seemed lost, and took advantage of them in the most despicable of ways.  Enjolras had been in Jehan’s place before, and things did not end well. 

            Part of the very magic of their race was their ability to enchant.  A man could lay eyes on them for hardly a moment and be hopelessly in love.  This was Jehan’s first time away from the sea. He was unaware of his power, unpracticed, and unsure how to use it.  Enjolras had mastered the skill.  Though far from promiscuous, (not after his first encounter on shore) he did know that sometimes, the fastest way to get what you wanted from a person was to make them fall in love with you.  Something about this Grantaire character rubbed Enjolras the wrong way.  He smelled of alcohol, and spoke like he knew more than he was letting on, like he was somehow superior.  Perhaps he was only putting on airs, but Enjolras was usually a good judge of character.

            He wasn’t sure what to do next.  Should he tell the truth?  Admit to these two strange men that he and Jehan were not of their kind? But that could put them in unspeakable danger, and result in both of their deaths.  Of course they could wait until nightfall and ransack the house, then escape with Jehan’s coat into the night, but Jehan wasn’t even sure if they had his coat at all.  The last thing he wanted to do was be kicked out…for Jehan to be kicked out.  Enjolras could return to the sea whenever he wished, his coat was still in his possession, but Jehan would be stranded with nowhere to go.  Feuilly and Grantaire had kept him safe thus far…If they were going to do anything horrible, they already had ample chance and hadn’t taken it.  He decided he would tell them a half truth…That Jehan had lost a priceless ‘family heirloom’ and couldn’t possibly leave without it.  It had to be here somewhere, even if it had washed up on shore.  It was unusual for one of their kind to appear on shore very far from their coat, even if they had removed it prematurely, as Jehan obviously had.  Enjolras sighed and reentered the house, Jehan in tow, wiping his tears on the back of his hand.

            “Is everything alright?” Feuilly asked, seeing Jehan’s distress.  He wished to comfort him, but he wasn’t sure how…He didn’t want his brother to get the wrong idea.

            “Well…Yes and no,” Enjolras admitted, looking between Feuilly and Grantaire.  Though tall himself, The two lighthouse keepers were strong and robust.  Enjolras would have been lying if he said he wasn’t intimidated, but he was good at hiding it.  He had learned to put on a very convincing strong front.  “Jehan has lost something very dear to him…to us.  He had a coat, like mine,” he looked to the sealskin draped over his shoulder.  “He knows it’s here, on the island, but he’s lost it.  We cannot leave until it’s found.  Would you help us look?” he asked.  Feuilly nodded earnestly.  Grantaire did not seem so sure.

            “Yes of course,” Feuilly said.  “What does it look like?”

            “It’s white,” he explained.

            “Well you’re more than welcome to stay until you find it,” Grantaire said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

 


	4. Chapter 4

They combed the beaches of the little island for hours, Jehan and Feuilly searching the sand, Enjolras and Grantaire checking the rocky outcroppings, and yet Jehan’s coat was still nowhere to be found.

            “You really think it could be all the way up here?” Grantaire asked, stumbling over a slippery rock as he and Enjolras climbed across the bottom of a cliff face.  Enjolras turned from where he stood nearby, seeming to have little trouble with the rocky terrain.  If anything, he seemed bored, perhaps mildly perturbed at the situation, but otherwise unfazed by the massive stones.

            “He washed up on shore, it could be anywhere,” he called back, offering Grantaire his hand.  He took it with a smile, lacing their fingers together.  Enjolras allowed it.

            “You’re good at this,” he replied, running a hand through his damp, dark curls.  Enjolras rolled his eyes, and Grantaire couldn’t help but notice the droplets of sea spray caught in his eyelashes.  “You live near the shore?”

            “Yes,” he replied, peering between the crags and gaps in the rocks.

            “I just don’t understand why your _brother_ thinks it’s here.  I mean, he was limp as a fish when we found him, and had nothing on at all.  His coat being anywhere besides the abyss is a long shot—”

            “Well we have to look.  It’s very important, if he thinks it’s here, we need to check everywhere,”

            “But what’s so important about it?” Grantaire prodded. Enjolras was beginning to get annoyed, but he kept himself poised, his coat still draped over his shoulder.  He couldn’t help but feel Grantaire knew something about this, that he knew where Jehan’s coat was…that he had it.  He was searching halfheartedly.  Even if he was simply uncaring and cold, something still wasn’t right.  And if he didn’t care at all, why the questions?  And the accent…He had lived in Ireland.  The Irish were well aware of the existence of Enjolras’ and Jehan’s people. He knew.  He knew something.

            “It’s an heirl—”

            “Yes, yes, a family heirloom.  But the sea is vast, Enjolras.  The chances of it being here are—”

            “I was thinking, Grantaire,” Enjolras broke in as he climbed to the top of an outcropping, “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it isn’t in the sea after all,” Grantaire raised an eyebrow.  “Wouldn’t it be something if someone had it?  If someone found it already?” Grantaire felt his face flush pale as Enjolras gazed at him with his piercing green eyes. 

            “And what would happen if someone found it?” Grantaire tossed back, faking ignorance.

            “I think you might know what would happen,” Enjolras’ eyes were stony.  Grantaire had nothing to say, for a moment, and they continued on their way.

            “So it’s true, then,” he began somewhat cautiously after thinking things over for a few long moments.  “The stories my mother told me about the Selkie seals, back in Ireland,”

            “Perhaps,” Enjolras said, his back turned, looking down over the beach, his golden hair twisting in the stiff breeze from over the water.  “Some of the stories are nonsense, but others are not,”

            “But you are one, then?  One of the Fae, the Fairy People,”

            “Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?”

            “Why are you not so kind as you were when you first arrived?”

            “I was concerned for Jehan.  I didn’t know where you had him, if you were lying to me.  I needed to get the information out of you somehow, and I didn’t want you asking any questions before I was ready to answer questions,” Grantaire frowned, honestly a bit hurt.  He had truly thought Enjolras enjoyed his company, but it was, apparently, all a farce.

            “You are a terrible tease, you know,”

            “I apologize,” he said.  Grantaire was surprised at his sincerity.  “It is part of our magic.  We need to be able to charm should someone…” he trailed off and continued down the cliff face.

            “Should someone what?” Grantaire prompted.

            “Another question you already know the answer to,”

            “So you would allow me to bed you, should I snatch your coat?” he chuckled with a smirk.  Enjolras whipped his head around, a glare that could set fire to a soul. “You shouldn’t have told me it was so easy,”

            “I didn’t tell you anything,” he turned away again, folding his coat and holding it tightly to his chest with one hand as he used the other to steady himself on the stones.  Grantaire sighed and followed clumsily, kicking himself for saying something so crude.  Not only had he allowed himself to be tricked and teased by the very fairies he told Feuilly to be cautious of, now the most beautiful creature he had ever seen had every reason to hate him.  He pulled the flask from his belt.

 

Jehan followed Feuilly about the beaches of their little island, searching the surf for any sign of his coat.  They checked beneath driftwood, between the dunes, in the bushes of spray roses.  The sun was high when they finally decided to stop for a moment under one of the few scrubby trees on the hillside.  Jehan sat with a heavy sigh, holding his face in his hands.  Feuilly sat behind him and rubbed his back in an attempt to offer some sort of comfort.

            “We’ll find it.  Don’t worry,” he said with a smile.  Jehan looked up, his eyes filled with tears.  “How I wish you could speak…I have so many questions!” he continued, in an attempt to make Jehan smile.  “Where did you come from?  You seem to have fallen into our laps, and with such a strange custom as a coat in August,” he laughed.  Jehan wiped his eyes with a small smile.  “A strange custom, and a very pretty face,” he added.  Jehan blushed, hiding his face with his hands for a moment with a bashful grin.  He brought a delicate finger up and touched Feuilly’s nose lightly.

            “Me?” he asked.  Jehan nodded. “I do not have a pretty face, Jehan!” he laughed heartily. Jehan nodded insistently, running a careful hand down his cheek, through his beard.  Their kind could not grow hair on their faces, and Jehan had never seen anyone with such a full beard before.  He found it quite masculine and attractive, different, exotic, though he was obviously the exotic one.

            “I am quite glad you washed up on our little island, as horrible as that may sound,” he said after a long moment of quiet contemplation, watching Jehan’s long red hair blow in the sea breeze.  He turned and raised an eyebrow, hugging his knees to his chest as he sat on the grass.  “You are very sweet,” he added.  Jehan smiled again, scooting beside Feuilly and taking his hand, lacing their fingers. He stood slowly, their hands still entwined, and lead Feuilly down the hill, back towards the beach.  He finally released his hand in the breakwater and smiled as he removed his shirt, followed shortly by his trousers.  He fell back into the waves, looking to Feuilly with shining eyes, prompting him to do the same.  He, too, removed his shirt, and followed.  Jehan submerged, and Feuilly swam further out into the water.  He jumped when Jehan surfaced just beside him.

            “You startled me!” he laughed, splashing him. Jehan took his face in his hands.

            “What are you doing?” he asked with a grin.  Jehan craned his long, white neck and nuzzled Feuilly’s beard with his nose.  Feuilly ran his hands down Jehan’s neck, to his shoulders, and pulled him into an embrace, down into the water.  They laughed when they fell, sitting in the water, up to their shoulders.  Feuilly looked to Jehan and brushed the wet hair from his face.

            “I have not had so much fun in a long time, Jehan,” he admitted.  Jehan smiled in agreement, placing his chin on Feuilly’s shoulder.  Feuilly turned his head, nose to nose, and Jehan closed the space between them, meeting in a cautious, unsure kiss, his jaw shaking as he did so, pulling away after hardly a touch.  Feuilly was dumbstruck, his eyes wide.  Jehan’s face flushed bright red, and he seemed to recoil into himself, away from Feuilly, fearful he had done something wrong.  He wasn’t even sure what he had just done, or why, but he felt something so deep, so strong and unknown to him, that he felt he must do something.  He felt tears well behind his eyes, but before they could fall, Feuilly took his head in his hands and pulled him into a proper kiss, his hand at the nape of his neck, his whiskery chin leaving a rosy patch on Jehan’s cheek. 

            When they parted, Jehan found himself trembling, and raised a hand to his lips, as if unsure of what had happened.  Feuilly smiled at his reaction, chuckling warmly.

            “A kiss,” he explained, dunking his head below the surface and slicking his hair away from his face.

            “A kiss,” Jehan repeated in a small coo of a voice. He gasped, and covered his mouth with his hand.  He had never heard his voice before. 


	5. Chapter 5

“What a darling voice to match a darling face,” Feuilly smiled wide.

            “I-I have…never had a voice before,” he said slowly, carefully, thinking his words through thoroughly before saying them. “W-we do not speak without our-r coats,”

            “But we haven’t found your coat,” Feuilly raised an eyebrow.

            “Our coats, or…someone who loves us,” he smiled meekly.

            “How interesting,” Feuilly replied, taking Jehan’s jaw in his hand.  Jehan leaned into the touch.

            “I think Enjolras will be…angry with me,” he continued , looking away, wringing his hands.

            “Why?  He should be pleased you’re able to speak!”

            “He will say I am too…fast?  Or…too trusting, I suppose,” he attempted to find the words. “He does not trust anyone,”

            “That is a bit sad, I think,” Feuilly said, standing and making his way towards the beach.  Jehan followed, watching as Feuilly squeezed the water from his shaggy hair.  He pulled his shirt over his head, and watched with a crooked smile as Jehan once again struggled with the drawstring on his trousers.  Feuilly helped him, tying them tightly so they didn’t slide on his narrow hips.

            “You just can’t seem to get the hang of those, can you?” he chuckled.  Jehan shrugged with a bashful blush.

            “I’ve never needed them before,” he tugged the shirt over his head, the collar hanging from his shoulder.  Jehan was quite slight, and Grantaire’s clothing was much too large for him.

            “I am so glad you can speak, I’ve got so many questions to ask you!” Feuilly said as they made their way up the rocky cliff face, back up to the lighthouse.

            “Alright,” Jehan replied with a small laugh.

            “Where did you come from?  Were you shipwrecked?  Or… _what_ are you, I suppose…You are magical, I know it, but I don’t understand,”

            “Well…I come from the sea,” he began, “but I was not on a ship.  I have never been on a ship before, though I think I’d quite like to be,” he smiled. “And…I’m not sure what _you_ would call me…I do not know if there is a word. Enjolras would know, he knows so many things,”

            “Enjolras is your brother, then?”

            “No.  Well…maybe. My mother died a long time ago, and my father was a man, like you, I never met him.  Enjolras looked after me after that,”

            “I am sorry about your mother,”

            “That’s alright…it was a very long time ago, now,”

            “But your father was a man?  Just…a man?”

            “Yes.  All of us have one parent from the shore, that’s just…how it works, I suppose,” he shrugged.  “But there are very rarely children of our kind.  We come to land of our own accord, but if our coats are lost or stolen, we cannot go back to the sea.  If they are stolen, we must lay with the person who has taken it to get it back, if they will not give it to us,”

            “That is a bit horrid,” Feuilly replied.  “I understand why you are so worried for it…And I understand why Enjolras is so worried for you,”

            “Yes…I probably should have listened to him,”

            “What do you mean?”

            “He told me not to come to shore…He said men were horrible, selfish creatures who would only take advantage of someone like me…Someone who does not know anything about living on the land.  But I wanted to see for myself.  And…I think he may have been wrong,” he took Feuilly’s hand as they walked up through the small garden, nearing the house.  Feuilly smiled.

            “Perhaps he is wrong about some things…I would not try to take advantage of you, even if I did have your coat.  I wish I did have it, then you could go back to your home,”

            “Well…I’m not so sure I _want_ to go home anymore,” Feuilly held the door for him, and bowed his eyebrows curiously.

            “You want to stay here?”

            “I want to stay with you,” he said quietly, almost a whisper, a peachy shade creeping across his cheeks, “if you would have me,” Feuilly pulled him into a warm embrace.

            “Of course I would have you, Jehan,” he said as he nuzzled his nose in Jehan’s hair.  “But I’d still like to find your coat.  You’re trapped, now.  I would never wish that on anyone,”

            “You are not like the men Enjolras told me about,” Feuilly smiled.

 

—o0o—

 

Grantaire had been struggling to keep up for some time, but he reached a point where he could not take another step.  Enjolras still seemed fresh, energetic, and Grantaire did not understand.  It must have been part of his fairy magic.

            “Enjolras,” he huffed, tugging himself up on a large rock half way out the jetty.  Enjolras turned from where he stood a few yards ahead.  “Stop a minute.  Enjoy the view,” he smiled, though he was out of breath.  Enjolras sighed and backtracked, sitting beside him, crossing his long, thin legs.

            “So you are a Selkie,” he said after resting a bit. Enjolras ran his hands over his coat, smoothing the hairs back gingerly, but he did not reply.  “My mother used to tell me stories of them when I was small. She said she worried my father would find a Seal-Wife while he was away tending his light.  She was only teasing, of course,” he smiled, leaning closer to Enjolras, tipping his head in his direction.  “Perhaps I will find me a Seal-Wife some day,”

            “Selkies only give themselves handsome men,” Enjolras sassed with a grin.  Grantaire laughed and gave him a playful shove.

            “You wound me, Enjolras!” he pressed a hand to his chest. “But I understand.  You are beautiful.  Surely everyone is ugly compared with you,” Enjolras looked away, back out over the bay. Grantaire risked brushing the hair from his forehead. 

            “Please don’t,” he said, but made no move to resist.

            “Enjolras, I know I come across as crude, but I want you to know…I would not hurt you.  You or Jehan,” he said, pulling away after hardly a touch, the feeling of his silken hair still tingling on his fingertips. 

            “I have no way of knowing that for sure,” he replied. “I just want to find Jehan’s coat and return to our home.  I don’t want…anything else,” he hugged his coat to his chest, resting his chin in the golden hair.

            “I joked, before, but I promise you I will not take your coat,”

            “You mean the way you took Jehan’s?” he looked up, his eyes stony.

            “Why do you think I took it from him?” he asked, feeling the blood drain from his face.  This was the second time in just a few hours Enjolras had hinted to Grantaire’s secret.

            “Perhaps you did not, but your friend may have…or the two of you.  Jehan is naïve.  You could easily get him to agree to whatever you wanted if you promised him his coat back, even more than what’s necessary, even though none of it should be necessary anyway.  Men are a curse on us.  They take and take and give nothing back, tossing us out to sea when we bore them or leaving us an empty shell when we manage to escape.  I want to find Jehan’s coat so we can leave and never come back here again,” he seemed almost tearful, his golden curls falling in his eyes. Grantaire wasn’t sure what to say. He was beginning to feel horribly guilty…but he wasn’t even sure if the coat he found was Jehan’s!  And if it were, and he gave it back, they would leave, never to return…Enjolras would leave.  He couldn’t bear the thought.  He had never been so taken with someone, and had so few chances to meet new people.  Feuilly was fine, but…he was lonely.  Enjolras made him feel whole for the first time in his life, and he didn’t want to lose him.

            “Did…did something happen to you, Enjolras?  The last time you were on shore, I mean,”

            “Why would you think that?” he replied sharply.

            “You seem to have so little faith that men could possibly be anything but horrid,”

            “It doesn’t matter now,” he stood.  “It was a long time ago.  Let’s find Jehan’s coat.  That’s what matters now,”

 

—o0o—

 

Grantaire and Enjolras returned to the house later in the day, near dinnertime.  Feuilly and Jehan had been tidying the house, cleaning the dishes and tending the stove, sweeping the porch and watering the garden.  Jehan grinned as soon as the door opened.

            “Enjolras!” he cooed.  Enjolras returned the smile.

            “You’ve found it,” he said, taking Jehan’s hands. Feuilly kept himself busy with the dishes…Jehan had said Enjolras would be angry, and the anger would probably be targeted at him.

            “Well…no,” Jehan admitted.  Enjolras’ eyes widened, and he looked to Feuilly, then back to Jehan. Jehan smiled meekly.

            “What did you do?” he asked in a whisper, more concerned than angry, tugging Jehan into the corner.  Grantaire listened from the sofa, pouring himself a mug of wine.

            “I…I forget what it was called…” he admitted, scratching at his arm absently.  “Something with a k…with…” he pointed to his mouth.  Enjolras sighed, relieved.

            “A kiss,” he said, visibly relaxing.

            “Yes,” Jehan nodded.  “And Enjolras, it wasn’t bad at all!  He is so kind, Enjolras, he just wants to find my coat so I can go home. He told me I could stay if I’d like, but that he would never want to trap me here at all, and—”

            “I am glad he did not hurt you…”

Grantaire tossed the cork from his bottle at Feuilly, who turned when it hit him.  Grantaire raised his eyebrows suggestively, glancing toward Jehan as he spoke with Enjolras quietly in the corner.  Feuilly made a face, rolling his eyes and waving his hand dismissively, returning to his dishes.

            Jehan smiled and returned to Feuilly’s side, taking a dishcloth and drying the plates.  Enjolras sighed, and sat on the sofa beside Grantaire.

            “It seems Jehan has made a friend,” he said quietly with a smile.

            “So it would seem,” he replied with a quick smile. “He is…kind, though, isn’t he?  Feuilly, I mean.  He wouldn’t—?”

            “No.  No he would never.  Never ever. He is the mildest, sweetest man I have ever had the pleasure of knowing,” he stretched, resting his arm across the back of the sofa.  He could swear he saw Enjolras scoot just a little closer to him.

 

 

 

 

Can y'all tell I have no idea where this is going because I have no idea where this is going.


	6. Chapter 6

“I don’t want to put anyone out,” Enjolras said as Feuilly took a spare set of sheets from the closet and draped them over the sofa.

            “Not at all!” Feuilly replied, taking the cushions from the backrest and tossing them onto the floor, the coffee table pushed against the wall and out of the way.  “Grantaire will take the sofa, I’ll take the floor, and you and Jehan can sleep upstairs in the bedroom,”

            “I can sleep…elsewhere,” Enjolras said, his coat draped over his shoulder.  Jehan was suddenly struck with a mild sadness.  How he loved sleeping out under the stars, on a beach still warm from the day’s sunlight.  But he supposed sleeping out on the beach was no longer a safe thing to do…Not in this body.

            “Please stay,” Grantaire said with a smile, taking his hand casually.  Enjolras did not pull away.

            “If you’re sure,” he replied, looking between Grantaire and Feuilly.  Jehan emerged from the bathroom a moment later, his hair wet from the shower, in one of Grantaire’s nightshirts.

            “I quite like the rain maker,” he grinned. 

            “The shower?” Feuilly guessed with a chuckle.

            “Shower, yes!  But I do not like the tiny whirlpool, it is quite loud,” he made a face. Grantaire laughed.  Enjolras ran a hand through his hair, seeming slightly perturbed.

            “Well, I suppose we should be turning in, then,” Enjolras said as Feuilly lit one of the oil lamps in the kitchen.

            “If you’d like,” he smiled.  “I’m going to up to tend the light.  There are lamps upstairs, if you’d like,”

            “Thank you, but I am quite tired…” he began up the stairs, looking to Jehan to follow.

            “I’ll meet you in a minute,” he smiled.  Enjolras continued upstairs. 

            “Would you like something?” Feuilly asked, curious as to why Jehan hadn’t turned in with Enjolras.  It was dark, well after sunset, and there was little to do besides read.

            “I…no,” he replied, unsure, watching as Grantaire lay on the sofa, covering himself with a thin blanket.

            “Are you sure?”

            “Yes, I just…” he opened his arms to Feuilly with a meek sort of smile, and Feuilly pulled him into a warm embrace, his strong arms engulfing Jehan, giving him a great feeling of safety and security he had never felt before.  “What is this called?” he asked as he snuggled into Feuilly.  Feuilly kissed his hair.

            “A hug,” he explained with a smile.

            “A hug,” he repeated, trying the word.  “And this is a kiss,” he gave Feuilly a quick peck on the lips.

            “And that is a kiss,” he replied.  “Goodnight, Jehan,” he said as they parted.

            “Goodnight, Feuilly.  Thank you,” he hurried up the stairs.

 

—o0o—

 

Enjolras sat on the bed, listening carefully to hear what Jehan was saying to Feuilly.  He felt the blood rush to his cheeks as they shared their embrace, a bitterness creeping into his being.  Envious wasn’t the right word, no…He did not want what Jehan had with Feuilly…at least he told himself he didn’t.  He only wished that he had been so lucky so many years ago, when he first found himself on shore…

 

It was sunny, he remembered, and warm.  He pulled himself onto the beach and removed his coat for the first time, simply curious as to what sand felt like between toes, what he looked like in his other form, if sunshine was different out of the sea.  He hid his coat under a stone up the beach, and took himself for a walk, occasionally crouching to examine a seashell or piece of sea glass.  How they shined in the light!  They did not shine that way deep in the sea.  He laid on the sand, enjoying his new ability to stretch his arms and arch his back.  How restraining his seal skin was!  And he didn’t even know it!

            He quickly retreated to the water when anyone wandered down the beach, watching closely, listening to their speech, noting their clothing, their laughter, the way the children ran across the sand.  He found their movements beautiful, enchanting, elegant. Their limbs were long and graceful, their hair flowed in the breeze, their eyes shined in the light.

            He waited until nightfall, then crept up the beach, finding his coat and cautiously leaving the beach.

            The stones of the street were still warm from the sun, and he quite enjoyed the way they felt against his new feet.  He found these long limbs shaky, though, and stumbled as he went, using the railing of a front stoop to support himself for a moment as he caught his bearings.  To the rest of the world, he looked like a stumbling drunk, and it wasn’t long before someone offered assistance.

            He was tall, tall and lean, with broad shoulders and deep-set eyes.  Enjolras wasn’t sure what to do or how to react when he spoke, and simply stared into those dark eyes.

            “Monsieur, are you quite alright?” he asked, placing a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder and helping him sit down on the stoop.  The man sat beside him, dressed far too properly to be sitting on the ground, in a vest and long, black pants, shiny shoes, and a top hat perched neatly atop dark hair. 

            “I…um…Yes,” Enjolras replied, started by his own voice. He hadn’t used it before.  He looked the man up and down, suddenly very aware of his bare legs protruding unceremoniously from under his coat.  He crossed his legs.

            “Because you look rather lost,” the man continued, leaning in close, attempting to determine if Enjolras had anything to drink. When he didn’t smell alcohol on his breath, his concern grew.  This young man was certainly lost.

            “I…I am alright,” Enjolras attempted again, doing his best to sound confident, but it was difficult, considering he had never spoken before.

            “Well…It is quite late.  Why don’t you come home with me and we can get you back where you belong in the morning,” he smiled lightly, standing and offering Enjolras a hand. He took it and allowed himself to be lead home.

            The man offered Enjolras clothing and allowed him to sleep in his bed while he took the sofa, and though he was nervous, Enjolras found he quite enjoyed the man’s company.  His name was Montparnasse, and he treated Enjolras kindly…

 

At first.

 

Enjolras had been on shore and with Montparnasse for three days when things began to change.  He would say things, do things, that Enjolras did not particularly enjoy.

            “You’re quite pretty, you know,” he would say, and hold his chin in his hands.  He brushed the curls away from his face.

            “Please don’t,” Enjolras had said, looking away. But Montparnasse pulled him back by his chin, and pressed their mouths together in a sloppy kiss.  Enjolras stood and ran from the house, momentarily forgetting his coat.

            He wandered the street for many hours, calming himself as best he could before deciding he needed to return, if not for his coat, than to apologize…Perhaps Montparnasse was only being friendly…Enjolras knew nothing of the human world, nothing of their customs or traditions. Running away was not going to fix anything.  He returned to the house and found Montparnasse sitting on the sofa, right where he had left him, a thick volume sitting open on his lap.

            “So you decided to come back,” he said, standing with a sly sort of grin, closing his book and placing it on the cushion. Enjolras attempted to speak, to explain, but found he could not, and began to panic, frantically searching the room for his coat.  It was not on the hook by the door anymore, not where he had left it.  He began to cry, something he had never experienced before, and only panicked further as his eyes stung and tears reddened his cheeks.

            “Oh, have you lost something?” he asked, crossing his arms and taking a smooth step closer.  “I thought of something, while you were away,” he continued, circling the sofa before sitting down again.  “It is July, my friend.  July in France.  Why, pray tell, would a man be wearing a sealskin coat in July?  So I took a quick walk to the library and did some digging,” he opened the book to the marked page and showed Enjolras the drawing. The book of mythology contained a detailed drawing of a seal, directly beside another drawing of a man in a sealskin coat.  Though Enjolras could not read, he knew he had been caught, and he knew what was going to happen next. 

            He collapsed, gagging on his tears as he crumpled hopelessly against the door.

           

Quiet tears fell again as he sat on Grantaire’s bed, safe, his coat beside him.  He threaded his arm through one of the sleeves, though it was warm in the little room, to be sure it would not be taken while he slept, and laid down just as Jehan entered the room.  He heard the bedsprings squeak as Jehan sat down, and shortly heard his light voice from across the room.

            “Enjolras?” he whispered. 

            “Yes, Jehan?” he replied, his face to the wall.

            “What is this for?” he asked, forcing Enjolras to turn and look over his shoulder. 

            “That is a pillow.  You rest your head on it,” he explained, turning to face the wall again, his mind wandering.

            “But why?  This is already quite soft,” he pressed on the mattress.

            “You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to, it’s just something people do, I don’t know why,” he replied, seeming short. Jehan frowned.

            “Sorry,” he replied quietly.  Enjolras was struck with guilt.  It wasn’t Jehan’s fault Feuilly was kind to him.  It wasn’t Jehan’s fault he was found by someone caring. It wasn’t his fault he was in love. 

            “No, I’m sorry,” he shifted in the bed.  “I’m just very tired, is all.  I will see you in the morning,” he turned and offered Jehan a small smile.  Jehan returned the gesture before laying down himself.  Enjolras’ mind continued to meander.  He thought of Grantaire.

            He had told a lie.  Not a terrible lie, but a lie nonetheless.  Grantaire had asked him why he had become so cold after being friendly just hours before.  He said it was a part of his makeup, part of being Fairy-Kind.  That part wasn’t totally untrue…but it was untrue of Enjolras in that moment.  No, he hadn’t become cold due to a ruse being dropped.  He disengaged because he was afraid.

            Enjolras had been back to shore many times, years after his first horrible encounter, for lots of different reasons.  Mostly, he wanted to learn.  He attended classes, traveled, even worked as a fisherman in the past, but he always remained as isolated as possible, speaking to nobody unnecessarily, keeping his doors and windows locked and his coat always safely locked away when not on his person.  And once he had learned what he desired to know, he returned to the safety and comfort of the sea.

            When he met Jehan, he immediately saw himself in him, and it frightened him.  So caring, so trusting, so curious.  He could never let Jehan experience what he had.  He could never let him remove his coat.  Not ever.  But, just like him, Jehan was inquisitive.  He wanted to know what he looked like, what sand felt like between toes; if sunshine shone differently outside of the sea. 

            It would be another lie to say Enjolras was not relieved Jehan had run into Feuilly.  He was caring.  He was kind. But it would be yet another lie to say Enjolras did not share Jehan’s desire for a companion, for someone to care for him.  And another lie still to claim he did not feel something frighteningly like love for Grantaire.  He was crude, yes, and perhaps fancied wine just a tad too much, but at the end of the day, he was kind, too.  He was so unapologetically himself, said what he thought, did what he wished without worry, traits Enjolras so wished he could find within himself.  But he was afraid, too.  He still couldn’t help but think Grantaire knew something he wasn’t letting on, even if it wasn’t the location of Jehan’s coat…

            He fell asleep with his mind ablaze, his dreams restless and disjointed.


	7. Chapter 7

Grantaire pretended to be asleep as Jehan and Feuilly spoke, but he was wide awake, and he was drowning in his own guilt.  He had Jehan’s coat.  He had it, he knew he had it, and he didn’t know what to do.  His mind churned and writhed, turning over ideas, running through possible results of potential actions.  If he gave the coat back, and the search was over, Enjolras would leave. He would return to the sea and never return, and Grantaire knew he would never love anyone again.  He couldn’t.  Enjolras was simply perfect; there was no way around it.  He was stubborn, headstrong, intelligent…everything Grantaire admired, not to mention he was completely and unbelievably beautiful, the vision of one of the Fairy-Kind, like a drawing in a children’s book.  Even the way his skin felt, the silken touch of his hair, his green eyes…Grantaire felt himself dissolve into ecstasy just thinking about him.  He had never been so afraid of anything as he was of losing Enjolras.

            But on the other hand, if he didn’t return the coat and it were to be found, one day, Enjolras would never forgive him.  Not only would he leave, but he would have such a deep hatred of Grantaire.  The only thing worse than losing him was losing him on poor terms, losing him and knowing he hated him.

            But how could he give it back now?  Should he hide it somewhere out on the island and let them find it on their own?  Enjolras would not be angry with him, but he would still leave, and Grantaire’s conscience would not be clear.  If he returned it openly and begged forgiveness, perhaps he would be forgiven. But it seemed no matter what he did, the end result was the same: he would be without Enjolras, and he could not stand the thought.  He would throw himself from the top of the light, end himself the way his father had ended.  It was the only thing he could think to do.

            He sighed heavily.  He had to give it back.  He had to return it and live with the fact that his first and only real love would leave him.  But he couldn’t continue this way.  He was nearly sick with guilt, the shame eating him alive. 

            As soon as Feuilly had scaled the stairs and headed up to the light, about half an hour after Jehan had retired, Grantaire crept from bed.  He walked as silently as he could across the old, worn floorboards, avoiding the squeaking first stair as he headed for the bedroom.

            He was unsurprised to find Enjolras curled in a ball. Though he hadn’t thought much about it, it seemed the way Enjolras would sleep—small, unassuming, keeping himself safe. Even his coat was tightly around him, his arm threaded through the sleeve so it could not be removed without waking him.  Everything he did seemed in self-preservation.

            Jehan, on the other hand, lay sprawled across Feuilly’s small mattress, the blanket twisted in and out of his libs as he lay on his back, his hair splayed about his head in messy tendrils.  The pillow had somehow found its way under his left shoulder, and his arm was bent awkwardly over the edge of the bed. Grantaire smiled.  He slept like a little child, sprawled and kicking about, an archaic smile gracing his pale face.

            Grantaire tiptoed to the foot of his bed, opening his trunk as lowly and quietly as possible, doing his very best to avoid the squeaky hinges.  The coat was right where he left it, folded neatly on top of his stack of books, beside his few articles of clothing.  He removed it gently, admiring the pearlescent fur in the moonlight for just a moment before carrying it across the room, draping it gently over Jehan. He seemed to stir slightly, frightening Grantaire, but he did not wake.  He only snuggled under the familiar garment, fisting his hand in the fur and puling it close.  It seemed to conform to him, draping over him in such a way that it almost seemed a part of him…but then again, he supposed, it was a part of him.

            After admiring Jehan for just a moment, he crept across the room again, carefully closing the trunk before heading back downstairs and laying back down on the sofa.  Silent tears slipped from his eyes as the gravity of what he had done settled over him.  His life would end tomorrow morning.

 

Enjolras woke early the next morning, before the sun rose, and watched through the window as the horizon turned pale.  He stretched his arms above his head, removing his coat from his arm and resting it gingerly in his lap, smoothing the glossy strands so they laid flat; they were always messy in the morning.

            He sighed and turned from the window, looking to Jehan for the first time that day, and his eyes widened.  Jehan’s pearly white coat was wrapped tightly in his arms, as if he were giving it a hug, his face buried in the soft pile. 

            At first, Enjolras was overjoyed.  Jehan’s coat was safe and back in his possession.  But his joy quickly became seething anger. Someone had it.  Someone had it all along.  And Enjolras knew who it was.

            He grabbed his coat glided down the stairs, silently, but quite obviously furious, his hair in a wild sprawl around his head, his eyes ablaze.  He tossed his coat to the chair in the corner and gave Grantaire’s back a shove.  He stirred, but did not wake.  Enjolras shoved him again, harder, pushing his face into the backrest of the sofa.  Enjolras held it there, his fist in Grantaire’s hair. 

            He woke and struggled for a moment before Enjolras pulled back on his hair, his head following it around to look him in the face.

            “You.  You had it.” He hissed in a simmering whisper.  “You had it all this time!”

            “Enjolras, please, let me—ah!” he cried out as Enjolras pulled up on his hair, hard. 

            “There is nothing you can say or do that would make me want to kill you any less,” he pulled Grantaire by his hair into a sitting position, and put his free hand around his neck.  “I warn you.  I am far stronger that I seem,” he tightened his grip.  Grantaire made no protest, though he could feel his pulse in his ears. “I could kill you,” he bore his teeth, and to Grantaire’s surprise, he saw the canines not of a man, but of a harbor seal, sharp and long, frightening.  “It wouldn’t be hard.”  Grantaire nodded, even as the edges of his vision became cloudy.  He struggled to breathe.

            He was just shy of losing consciousness when Enjolras released him.  He coughed and sputtered, gulping air as he came back to life, the color returning to his face.  Enjolras furrowed his brow, puzzled.  Even as the life was leaving his body, Grantaire kept his hands neatly at his sides, perhaps fisted in the blanket he slept on, but making no attempt to free himself.  It must have taken great restraint, to keep himself from struggling, to keep instinct from kicking into self-preservation mode.  He looked at him, his teeth returning to their neutral state, no longer those of a seal.  He softened.

            “Well do it, then,” Grantaire said when he caught his breath, wiping tears from his eyes.

            “What?” Enjolras replied shortly, looking down on Grantaire as he sat on the sofa, quite dejected.  Enjolras crossed his arms.

            “Kill me,” he said, uncaring, no emotion in his eyes. He appeared corpse-like already, his face pallid, lips bluish from his near-strangulation.  Enjolras wasn’t sure what to say.  He wanted to kill him.  He wanted to punish him for what he had done to Jehan.  To him.  But he couldn’t.  Not like this.  He could not kill a man who offered no struggle, who made no effort to save himself. It wasn’t fair.  But did he want to kill him at all?  He didn’t.  Not really. But he didn’t know why!  He couldn’t understand why his pity was so overpowering upon seeing Grantaire sitting there, so vulnerable, so pathetic.

            “If you’re going to do it, do it!  Don’t keep me waiting!” he shouted, shaking Enjolras from his thoughts.  Enjolras ran a hand through his hair.

            “No, I…No,” he turned and sat down in the single armchair, the one Feuilly frequented, and sighed heavily, brushing quiet tears from his own eyes.  “Why?” he asked finally.

            “You said you did not want my reason,” Grantaire replied quietly, his head gazing down to his feet, his hands folded in his lap.

            “Well I want it now,” Grantaire sighed heavily before beginning.

            “I didn’t know what it was, at first,” he said after a long pause.  “I found it the morning after Jehan washed up, I thought it was from a shipwreck.  I was going to sell it the next time we were on the mainland,” Enjolras listened intently, his eyes meeting Grantaire’s when he finally looked up from his lap.  To his surprise, Enjolras no longer seemed angry, only curious, interested.  He sat silently, waiting for him to go on.

            “And I thought almost at once that Jehan was Fairy-Kind.  He looks quite like the characters in the stories my mother told me, but it wasn’t until you showed up that I realized…When you came asking about Jehan and a coat,”

            “Why didn’t you return it when you realized?”

            “Because…I mean, when you first came, I…I felt a way I had never felt before.  You made me so happy.  I know that you said it was only a trick, only some sort of spell, but—”

            “No,” Enjolras broke in suddenly.  “No it wasn’t a trick.  I…I was afraid.  I was afraid of getting close to someone, I didn’t want…anything to happen.  That’s why I came for Jehan.  I was worried something would happen to him…”

            “Someone took your coat,” Grantaire said, a statement more so than a question.  Enjolras made no reply, but smoothed the fur on his pelt as it sat in his lap.  His cheeks grew hot and red.

            “You haven’t answered my question yet,” he said after a long moment, changing the subject. 

            “What?” Grantaire asked, his mind cloudy, attempting to process what was being said, what was happening.  He wasn’t stupid by any means, but he was still a bit shaken.

            “Why didn’t you return Jehan’s coat?”

            “I…I knew that if I gave it back, you would…you would leave,”

Enjolras felt his breathing hitch, as if he had been whacked in the chest. Someone cared so deeply for him that they were willing to risk their own demise to simply be in his presence.  He had lied, yes, lied horribly for days, but it was because his depth of feeling was so overwhelming, he would rather die then see him leave.  He wanted to give it back, Enjolras could see it, and he had given it back, even knowing that it would mean his life was over.  Enjolras would leave, and he would be left alone again.  But Enjolras would be happy.  Jehan would be made whole.

“I wanted to give it back, I did, I really did, but I just couldn’t fathom being without y—” Enjolras stood very suddenly and went to Grantaire, taking his scruffy cheeks in his hands and pulled him into a deep kiss.  Though he hadn’t willingly done this before, Enjolras seemed confident, sure of what he was doing, totally invested.  Grantaire tensed, his eyes wide, but after a long moment, he rested a hand behind Enjolras’ head, running his fingers through his golden hair, their noses bumping pleasantly as they continued their caress, pulling away only when they were breathless.  They sat, simply looking at each other, Enjolras stoic, Grantaire smiling.

“I didn’t think that would happen,” he admitted with a nervous little laugh.

“Me neither,” Enjolras replied, risking a small smile of his own. 

“I guess you’ll be going now, then,” Enjolras looked out the window, over the sea.  He did want to go back…Much like Jehan, he loved the waves, the water.  He loved laying out in the sun on a hot stone out in the surf.  He loved diving deep and looking up at the sky as the light danced across the surface of the water.  But there were things he loved about being on shore as well.  He loved the freedom that long, lean limbs gave him.  He loved the heat on his shoulders as he walked down the beach in the sun.  He loved the way sand felt between his toes.

 

And he loved Grantaire.

 

            “I don’t have to leave,” he replied after thinking for what seemed like an eternity to Grantaire.

            “You…I mean…You don’t?”

            “No.  Not now, anyway,” he flashed a small crooked smile.

            “But I don’t want to keep you here if you don’t want to stay.  That’s how all the stories end, you know; with the Selkie leaving when they’re finally able to escape,”

            “I don’t see anything preventing me from leaving,” he said, looking to his coat as it lay on the chair. 

            “But I thought that if someone of the Fairy-Kind stayed away from their home for too long, they…I don’t know, became ill, or…something,”

            “A story your kind made up.  We only have to return for the Solstices and the Equinoxes. And only for a day,”

            “Well, I am glad that story isn’t true,” he put an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders, and Enjolras rested his head against Grantaire’s chest.  This was the closest he had been to someone since his first time on the shore, so many years ago.  But this time, he wasn’t frightened.  He wasn’t helpless, and he wasn’t trapped.  And it felt very good.

 

 

 

 

Leave a comment!!!!  I have no self esteem and constantly need to be told im doing a good jobbbbb!!!!!!!  
Should Enjolras tell R the whole story :O   
What happens when Jehan wakes up?!

kdnfainwekngalerujgsefd


	8. Chapter 8

Jehan exploded into the room, leaping down the stairs and careening over the coffee table, his coat billowing like a sail behind him.

            “Enjolras look!  It’s back!  I don’t know where it came from, but I’ve got it!” he gushed, falling into Enjolras and giving him a hug.

            “I’m so glad, Jehan,” he smiled, smoothing his bed-wild hair.

            “Did you find it?  Did you give it back to me when I was asleep?” he asked, sitting beside Enjolras, snuggling up against his side.

            “No, I didn’t,” he replied, looking briefly to Grantaire, who swallowed hard.  What was he going to say?  Was he going to tell Jehan he had kept his coat from him for days?  That he lied?  He couldn’t be sure.

            “Grantaire found it,” he continued with a smile.  R sighed, relieved.  Not a lie…Grantaire had found the coat…but a half-truth.  One Jehan wouldn’t question.  He stood and offered Grantaire a hug, which he stood and returned, the fur soft on his hands as they embraced.

            “A hug,” Jehan said, more to himself than Grantaire, but he smiled nonetheless.

            “A hug,” he agreed.

            “Thank you, Grantaire, I’m so glad I have it back.  I thought I’d never see it again!” he admitted as they parted.

            “I’m glad you’ve got it back, too,”

 

Feuilly came down the stairs a moment later, his eyes dark and his eyelids heavy.  He had been tending the light most of the night—Grantaire would tend it the following night—and was quite sleepy.  Even so, he smiled when he saw Jehan, wrapped in his pearly white coat.

            “You’ve found it,” he said, meeting Jehan at the bottom of the stairs for a tight embrace. 

            “Grantaire found it,” he corrected, looking over his shoulder to where he sat beside Enjolras on the sofa.

            “Where was it, R?” he asked, starting a kettle for tea. Jehan took the mugs from the shelf above the sink.

            “It washed up on the beach,” he explained simply, glancing to Enjolras, who flashed him a smile.

            “When?  Where you out last night?  I didn’t see you,” he continued.  It wasn’t that he didn’t believe him…he was just curious, making conversation.

            “I…I mean—” he wasn’t sure what to say.  He had been able to sneak by on half-truths, but now he would have to lie, and he didn’t want to have to do that again.

            “He went for a walk late last night.  I heard the door shut,” Enjolras broke in, corroborating the story.  Feuilly shrugged.

            “Well I’m glad it’s found!  Now you can go home!” he looked to Jehan with a smile, though it did not reach his eyes. 

            “Yes…Yes I can go home.  But I’d quite like to stay here, I think,” he replied.  Feuilly feared he would change his mind upon being reunited with is coat, but it appeared Jehan was just as steadfast as before.

            “I’d quite like it if you did,” he leaned down and nuzzled his nose against Jehan’s. 

            “Will you be going, then, Enjolras?” Jehan asked quite sadly, handing him his thick clay mug of tea.  He sighed, and looked to Grantaire.

            “I think…I think I may stay as well, for a while,” he said, “If you’ll have me,” he looked to Grantaire, then to Feuilly. 

            “Yes of course,” Feuilly smiled.  “We’ll need a few more beds, but I think we could make it work,” Jehan bounced on his toes.

            “I don’t think I have ever been so happy before,” he cooed.

 

—o0o—

 

That fall, Feuilly, Jehan, Enjolras, and Grantaire built a small addition onto the lighthouse.  It had its own little potbellied stove to keep it warm, and a window that overlooked the water.  Jehan planted flowers around the outside, and it was whitewashed to match the rest of the house.

            Feuilly and Jehan shared the new room, and Enjolras and Grantaire pushed together the two small beds upstairs so that they might share a space.

 

It didn’t take long for Jehan to discover Grantaire’s stash of ivory whale teeth and carving tools, and it soon became obvious Jehan had quite a knack for carving scrimshaw.  He and Grantaire made everything from combs to beads to artistic renderings of ships and seascapes.  Grantaire focused more heavily on maritime themes: sailing ships, stormy seas, and lighthouses.  Jehan was quite different and far less architectural.  He created scenes from deep below the waves: seals, mostly, but also schools of fish and wrecked ships and scenes filled with flowing seaweed.  They brought them into town and sold them for handsome sums, Grantaire’s for his skill, Jehan’s for their novel approach and unusual subject matter. 

            Jehan was also simply enchanted by everything new he saw, especially the ferry that shuttled them to the mainland.  He loved the way the wind felt in his hair, something he had never experienced before, and loved even more the spray of the waves as they broke against the hull.

            Enjolras, too, found joy on the shore.  He was very intelligent, and quite interested in reading and storytelling.  He began to submit prose to the newspaper, and quickly became popular.  For the first time, he had a real identity, and for once, he wasn’t trying to blend in or remain inconspicuous.  His work was mostly autobiographical, with a few happier embellishments thrown in for good measure, but because most did not truly believe in the existence of his kind, he was praised as a successful fantasy writer.

            Feuilly followed Jehan like a shadow. 

 

It wasn’t because he was worried for him, not anymore, it was simply because he was so infatuated, so in love, that he never wanted to be too far away.  Even while tending the light, he would always creep down the stairs to see Jehan snuggled in bed, his coat hanging safely on the bedpost or wrapped around his delicate body in the colder months.

            Grantaire had never been happier than he was when he was with Enjolras.  In fact, he had stopped drinking almost totally, not even bothering to finish a bottle of wine he had opened the morning after Jehan’s arrival.

 

For the first time in a long while, the four of them were really, truly happy.  And isn’t that how a story is supposed to end?


End file.
